


The World Stands at Capacity

by Mytay



Category: House M.D., Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Place Your Bets, Sherlock v. House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytay/pseuds/Mytay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John wasn’t entirely certain which of the men was going to survive this confrontation, but if the small, silent crowd standing about the edges of the room was anything to go by, no one was leaving until a victor was declared . . . or until someone conceded.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Stands at Capacity

**Author's Note:**

> Written before season 3 of Sherlock aired (therefore containing my own highly incorrect theories about his parentage), and taking place perhaps after season 1. Also taking place after season 5 of House M.D. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own, or claim to own, either _Sherlock_ or _House, M.D._

**********

 

 It was like standing between two giants. John wasn’t entirely certain who was going to survive this confrontation, but if the small, silent crowd standing about the edges of the room was anything to go by, no one was leaving until a victor was declared . . . or until someone conceded.

 

He wondered, for the hundredth time, if Mycroft had really, truly done his research when he called for this madman to diagnose his brother. The inexplicable disease ravaging Sherlock's immune system was working slowly enough that they must have time to locate someone that was less of a misbegotten, constantly sarcastic, impossibly recalcitrant bastard.

 

Then John forced himself to relive the piercing terror of Sherlock collapsed, unable to breathe, on the floor of their flat. He simultaneously reminded himself that this Dr. House, brought in on the second day of Sherlock's hospital stay, was the first medical professional (incredibly _un_ professional, yet undeniably capable) to come up with an even halfway plausible theory. He grudgingly accepted that Sherlock's fate was in the rough, uncaring hands of this misbegotten, sarcastic etc. doctor; Sherlock had yet to do the same, refusing the next round of potential treatment, and therefore now ensued the battle of wills between the two highly volatile individuals.

 

“Your father hated you.” Sherlock launched the first volley, his voice scathing and loud despite having had a tube shoved down his throat less than two hours ago.

 

“A derivative conclusion when you consider my bedside manner.” John wasn’t sure if House was mocking Sherlock’s manner of speaking, or if he was simply unconsciously mimicking Sherlock's pattern of speech. “You’d already deduced my family issues, less than five minutes into conversing with me, oh brilliant one.” _That_ was definitely Dr. House ridiculing his patient. “I think the better question is why your father left _you_.”

 

John blinked, glancing at Sherlock and seeing him shrug as if letting this (correct? _God, that was horrible_ ) deduction slide right off him. One nurse whispered to another; Dr. Wilson immediately turned and whispered to them, his face grim. The nurses fell to his stern countenance (or his large, imploring brown eyes), and exited the room. Lestrade followed them (giving John a pitying glance before he left), as did the only other outsider, one of Dr. House's staff. John was grateful to Dr. Wilson, and glad to be wrong about the staying power of the crowd – this was already getting very personal and would only get crueller, considering the two men involved.

 

“Your pathos as an arrogant, misanthropic wanker isn’t why your father hated you – it was that he was constantly trying to shape you into something not unlike himself, but your mind would not be constrained into a military state, uniform, without original thought. I’m going to say Marines. You couldn’t bear it. You began rebelling at the earliest of ages – earlier than some due to your intellect, which while brighter than most, is not all that impressive when hampered by your psychological disturbances and chronic pain problems.”

 

John took a second to be slightly offended by the military comment. He saw Dr. Wilson take in a sharp breath, eyes widening, and John knew that Sherlock was spot on with his assertions. He had to look towards Dr. Wilson for hints because House was inscrutable – he maintained that irritating smirk on his face.

 

“I find it fascinating that you delve into psychology when it is so clear that you have zero knowledge on the subject.  You're like a four year old – a creepy British brat with a stick up his British _arsehole_.” House’s mocking imitation of Sherlock's accent was incredibly accurate, John noted absently, while trying to keep himself from punching the man in his sneering mouth.

 

"You have almost no concept of what feelings are, or how to deal with them, be they your own weirdo impulses or the ones of regular ol' human beings. I mean, look at this!” House pointed at John with his cane. John contemplated ripping it from his hand. “This man right here, and your landlady, are the only people who are willing to sit in the same room with you for more than five minutes at a time. Mr. Scotland Yard, whatever his name is – he told me you like to call yourself a high-functioning sociopath? I’m sure that’s something a therapist threw at you when you were sixteen and trying to cope with all the bullying from the stupid bags of hormones that were your contemporaries, and general abuse from teachers that were likely less than half your IQ. You’ve never matured because you didn’t _let_ yourself – you compartmentalized and hacked away at your own emotional depth because it was something you couldn’t get a hold on. Probably a virgin too, poor bastard.”

  
 _Jesus_ , but that was a rant not unlike Sherlock's own diatribes at his angriest, but delivered with far more vitriol – less coldly calculating, more intentionally vicious. John wished he could deny the truth in it, in any small part, but it was there, laid bare for him and for Dr. Wilson, a stranger, albeit a compassionate one. The man in question was opening his mouth, and then shutting it abruptly – John could relate; for all his anger, his desire to defend the man he was closest to in all the world, it was as though he and James Wilson were intruders. He almost wanted to leave the room altogether, come back when the dust had settled, but there was no way he could muster up the will – and not just because he had no idea if there’d be a room to come back to in the end.

 

“Don’t act like this is unfamiliar to you,” Sherlock sallied forth, sitting up higher in his bed, his pale eyes narrowing in annoyance . “Don’t tell me that this Dr. Wilson here isn’t _your_ only friend. You use your misanthropy as both shield and dagger. Also, your chronic pain must be quite potent; you’ve gripped and rubbed at your leg many a time – I could give you the precise number, but far more interesting is the fact that you haven’t taken anything – problems with drug dependency? Oxycontin? Vicodin?”

 

Dr. Wilson gave the game away again by uncrossing his arms, now staring with unparalleled shock at Sherlock. John watched House grip his cane until his knuckles turned white. Sherlock pounced on this like a bloodhound catching wind of a scent. “Only just recently resolved this, have you? After years of abuse, I imagine. And you, practising medicine all the while? Well, that alone speaks volumes about your abilities as a doctor, but I lack confidence in you. Perhaps if you went back to the Vicodin, I’d have more faith.”

 

House raised his eyebrows, yanking a stool over with his cane and sitting on it in one smooth motion. Not for the first time, John had to marvel at the ease with which this man made his way despite his crippled leg.

 

“Yes, well, don’t think your brother hasn’t let me know about your own little indiscretions.” He tapped his chin with the head of his cane, vibrant blue eyes glinting maliciously. “Heroin, Holmes? Really? But I guess having your brain working at five times the normal rate of humans is too pedestrian for you – why not make it a roaring _five hundred_ times faster and add in potential for overdosing while we’re at it?”

 

“I’ve been clean for quite some time and –”

 

“But still addicted to the thrills – if there is one thing you can’t stand to be, it’s _bored._ ” House was oddly softer with this pronunciation, and it was John’s turn to react, jerking a little in his seat. He saw Wilson catch his reaction, and for a moment they locked eyes.

 

“A good deduction, Dr. House – but tell me something?” John recognized that tone – that was Sherlock about to reveal some dark secret, and relishing the delivery of such an outing. He braced himself, eying Dr. House's cane in case it came flying at his patient's head.

 

“How often did your father abuse you?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

 

Dr. House gripped his cane again, this time hard enough to turn his entire hand white, though his face gave away nothing – which, to John, was a clear sign that Sherlock had struck home. House had been annoying and abrasive, and in calmer moments, less sarcastic and more pensive. ‘Blank’ hadn’t featured in any of those mood swings.  Dr. Wilson was staring at his friend, his expression of shock and disbelief fading into something near heartbreak. Sherlock relished his scored hit while John tried to swallow down pity for the diagnostician; instead he focused on sympathy for Dr. Wilson, who appeared to be feeling House's hurt for him.

 

“My father and I didn’t get along – that doesn’t translate into abuse. And that’s pretty lazy of you – you’re not the first person to try and explain away assholeness by way of childhood damage," House said, speaking as if no shocking revelations had been made.

 

“Oh, I’m fairly certain you’ve been this way since birth. The burden of all great minds is putting up with the lesser ones you are constantly surrounded by.” Sherlock sounded pleased with himself and John was feeling that distinctly confusing mixture of emotions that he associated with Sherlock – fascination, horror, a bit of pride, and a lot of awe. This time horror had a grander mix, because clearly Dr. Wilson hadn’t known. (John hadn't known that Mr. Holmes had abandoned his children, and his own heart cracked a little, imagining a curly-haired, wide-eyed and precocious child left behind – but he almost immediately recognized that Sherlock would be highly offended by this, more than likely, completely incorrect, sentimental estimation of his childhood.)

 

“No, no, I’m basing this on _psychology._ ” Sherlock’s lip curled as he said the word, his feelings on the subject clear. “More to the point: your abject inability, outright refusal, to acknowledge good in others. A fair bit of that is due to observation of all the varied foibles of humanity, but you are almost devout in this belief, and such faith in these principles must have started young. And since it is well known that our first introduction to the world is our parents . . . You have done everything possible to be as little like your father as you can; your lack of punctuality, your sloppy manner of dress – it all points to estrangement. I deduced that you hated each other, the abuse was simply a logical step to explain extreme indicators such as the ones you display.”

 

“I see why your father left now,” House bit out, his gravelly voice as sardonic as ever. “Which, by the way, isn’t saying that your conclusions are correct, it’s just a little meanness from me to you. Your teenage self must have been a justifiable homicide waiting to happen. It’s a miracle someone didn’t try to kill you earlier than . . . what, fifteen, sixteen?”

 

Sherlock leaned forward, brow furrowing. “Now, I know that there is nothing to indicate that –”

 

“In your medical reports, you’re right, it’s not in there, and knowing your brother, it wouldn’t be ‘cause clearly those ‘sociopathic’ ” – he made air quotes, one hand still wrapped around his cane – “tendencies led to the other guy getting way worse than the stab wound that left a scar on your lower left abdomen. Faint and pretty old, but I saw it when we were opening you up earlier. Looks like it went deep – you must’ve really pissed him off. And he must’ve really pissed you off for you to almost kill him back. I’m guessing this wasn’t over a classic exchange of ‘your momma’s so fat’ jokes?”

 

John felt the urge to jump to Sherlock's defence rear up again in near overwhelming potency, but his friend was already rallying. “You’re also a masochist to some varying degree – deliberately using your cane in the incorrect hand.”

 

“You’re assuming that I consider being a masochist an insult.” House grinned lewdly. “Which I don’t.”

 

“Hmm, and what about the brief foray into insanity then? One of the numbers on your phone – on your speed-dial, as a matter of fact – is a certain Dr. Darryl Nolan, a well-respected psychiatrist at his Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. I’m assuming the Vicodin addiction finally did you in – so you didn’t stop yourself, your own body, perhaps even your mind, rose up against you.”

 

“You’ve burned yourself once or twice, I’m assuming for the sake of one of your experiments.” John gaped, detecting a hint of familiarity, camaraderie even, in House's tone. “I’d say masochism, but no – you’re all about the science. And the not being bored.”

 

“Boredom is the silent and intrusive killer for minds like mine,” Sherlock said.

 

“I can relate. Hence why I’m here. Heart attacks, cancers, infections, death – all boring. But when you add in unexplainable symptoms, general human _stupidity,_ and the fact that _everyone lies . . ._ Well, things tend to get a little more interesting. Just like you and your crimes – murder, theft . . . all typical, _boring_ human behaviours.”

 

“Until someone or something makes it intriguing,” Sherlock conceded, eying House with a little more curiosity now. “How far would you go to solve your medical mysteries, House?”

 

“Short of killing my patients?” House cocked his head, making a big show of thinking. “Actually, I’ll pretty much risk my patients lives to figure it out. Often. Usually painfully. Particularly if they _annoy me._ ”

 

“And you have,” Sherlock said with an odd sort of . . . admiration? “You’ve risked more than that.”

 

“I have to know,” the doctor responded simply, those intense blue eyes watching Sherlock.

 

“As do I.” It was said slowly, bright grey eyes focused in return.

 

John stared over at Dr. Wilson, who was staring right at him too, mouth slightly parted.

 

“Your friend, John, he must have a few screws loose to keep following you around. I know my sidekick does.” He jerked his head at Wilson, who rolled his eyes – but didn’t contradict him.

 

“Well, yes, I would say so – residual effects from his time in Afghanistan notwithstanding, he is uniquely patient and accepting of me.” Sherlock didn’t even look towards him, and John just stared up at the ceiling, shaking his head.

 

House nodded. "Give me forty eight hours, Holmes, and you'll be out there, fighting crime and boredom in all your freakish glory."

 

"If your own brand of freakishness cannot have me up in less than twenty four, you are not the sole light of medical brilliance you claim to be, Dr. House."

 

House nodded again, smirking once more, and marching out of the room, right past his 'sidekick' with nary a backward glance. Dr. Wilson's brown eyes flicked from his friend's disappearing form, to Sherlock leaning back contently on his hospital pillows, steepling his fingers under his chin, a small, satisfied smile on his face.

 

Dr. James Wilson then turned his gaze to Dr. John Watson for one last long exchange of glances – of commiseration and not a small bit of exasperation, mingling with a terrfied sort of awe. Dr. Wilson then followed his closest friend out of the room, ready to help temper the other man in so far as he could; John understood quite well how little could be done in that regard, though that little was necessary.

 

Unbelievable. John didn’t think there was another one in the world. He often thought that between Sherlock, Mycroft, and Moriarty, there was _enough_ maladjusted genius at present – enough for the whole damned planet to implode.

 

But apparently there was also a Dr. Gregory House to contend with.

 

The implosion would surely be imminent now that they were all conveniently in one country. John gave the world a mental apology, as there was no way anyone, anywhere, could be prepared for whatever was to come from the cracked yet superior minds all currently residing on this too small Earth.

 

**********

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! *waves shyly* I’ve had this sitting on my hard drive for a substantial amount of time, and decided to allow it loose for public consumption. I adore Sherlock, but House was my first maladjusted genius detective, and so I shall always love him too. There’s room in my heart for both :) It's been a few years since I've watched House - forgive any inaccuracies, and please let me know if there are any glaring ones. 
> 
> I had a vague notion of writing the entire context of this one scene, but honestly, I like it better as the small glimpse that it is – not all secrets were revealed (like House's true parentage), and the medical mystery (and its outcomes) remain vague. Feel free to agree or disagree – comments are lovely, and as this is my first time posting on this site, advice is welcome :) Thank you for reading!
> 
> I also have a tumblr [here](http://thisgirlhastales.tumblr.com/) \- still figuring that frightening piece of technology out - as well as a [livejournal](http://mytay.livejournal.com/13681.html) under the same author name. If you're more comfortable with either of those, drop me a line there :)


End file.
